Windrush- Jayanti's Pawns

by Malcolm Archibald

  O'Neill's chuckle contained little humour. 'How shall we do it, sir?'

  Jack watched as Armstrong leaned closer to the man at his side. 'We'll do it the old way, O'Neill. We'll hit them as we hit the Plastun Cossacks in Crimea. We are the 113th, and we'll fight like the 113th.'

  'Eight of us and two sick against one hundred and twenty badmashes,' O'Neill said. 'It'll be a massacre.'

  'It will,' Jack said softly. 'And I want Armstrong taken alive. I want to know why he turned traitor and I want to see him hang.'

  'It's either because of a woman, sir, or money.' O'Neil said,

  'You could be right, Sergeant.' Jack took back the binoculars and tried to focus through the heat-haze. The camels seemed distended, as if they had legs thirty feet in length and extra-long necks. 'We'll take them tomorrow.'

  They moved through the night, jogging across the plain with the air clear and the jackals howling like damned souls. They stopped twice for water and overtook the convoy at half-a-mile distance as they searched for a suitable ambush spot. Nobody spoke. Nobody wasted breath, and nobody complained. They might be British soldiers, but they were also the 113th Foot, despised by everybody and with perverse pride that pushed them past the borders of endurance.

  'Here.' Drenched with sweat and with his chest heaving to drag oxygen from the blistering air, Jack halted.

  'There's nothing here.' O'Neill glanced around the featureless landscape. They stood on a bare plain that stretched as far as they could see, with only small copses of trees to break the monotony.

  'That's the idea,' Jack said. 'When we march, we expect an ambush at every wood, village or bridge. We are more relaxed in this kind of country. Armstrong's badmashes will be the same.'

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill looked doubtful.

  'Thorpe, I want you and Coleman to gather dry wood, grass, anything that can burn.'

  'Are we making a fire, sir?' Thorpe looked eager. Before he joined the army, Thorpe's arsonist tendencies had brought him trouble with the law.

  'You are, Thorpe. I want a broad stretch of dry wood, tinder, anything that burns, across the road and along that side, opposite us. Don't make it high, so the badmashes won't wonder what it is. I want it deep, tangled and hard to cross. In this climate, it shouldn't take you long.'

  When Thorpe hurried away, giving instructions to Coleman how best to gather combustible material, Jack spoke to the remainder of his men.

  'Right lads, dig rifle pits, deep enough to lie in, shallow enough so you can watch the road. Look out for snakes and scorpions and other creeping nasties.'

  Tired and hot, the men struggled to make an impression on the sun-hard ground until Logan laughed. 'Come on, boys; remember digging on Inkerman Ridge when we shovelled frozen rocks and corpses under Russian artillery fire. This dirt is nothing compared to that.'

  Jack hid his smile. It was unlike Logan to cheer anybody up.

  Scraping out holes in the ground, they used some of the earth to form a slight ridge in front of them and the remainder they sprinkled over their prone bodies.

  'Good.' Jack inspected them from a distance. 'I can't see you until I reach this point.' He thrust a stick into the ground. 'So as soon as the enemy reach this, we open fire. Who's the best with camels here?'

  'Batoor,' O'Neill said at once.

  'Batoor,' Jack called over the Pathan. 'I want you three hundred paces over there,' he pointed in the opposite direction to the dried kindling.

  'Yes, Captain Windrush.' Batoor looked uncertain as he stepped the distance.

  Jack nodded. 'Good. Now we wait.'

  Lying prone proved a tougher ordeal than Jack had expected. The sun hammered their backs and legs, burning through the worn material of their uniforms. 'Stick it, men,' he said. 'We're the 113th.'

  'Stick it, men,' Thorpe repeated. 'We're the 113th.'

  As the sun rose, the heat increased, turning rifle-barrels to heated tubes and raising blisters on any exposed flesh.

  'Bloody India,' Logan said. 'This is all Armstrong's fault.'

  'Here they come,' Whitelam murmured at last, and Jack felt the tremble of the ground. He took a deep breath as the familiar sensations of fear and excitement danced somersaults in his stomach. He had heard that a man only had a certain amount of luck and when he had used that up, death was almost certain. So far, luck had been with him. He'd fought in battles where thousands had formed up on either side and in skirmishes of a few dozens and had escaped with only minor injuries. He knew that someday, perhaps today, he would finish his store of luck and a bullet or bomb would end his career and his life. Worse, he could be maimed, to exist as a crippled wreck for the remainder of his life. Please God for a quick death, a soldier's death rather than that lingering hopelessness.

  The enemy convoy was thirty yards from the marking stick, a ragged mass surrounding the treasure camels. Jack searched for Armstrong.

  'Ready, boys,' O'Neill's low voice carried along the British line.

  Jack unfastened the flap of his holster. The steel of his revolver was hot enough to burn his hand. He wrapped his fingers around the butt, feeling the wood slippery with his sweat.

  Twenty-five yards to the marking stick. The enemy straggled across both sides of the road rather than marching in military precision. Jack cursed; that made his job more difficult. He still couldn't see Armstrong among the mass.

  Twenty yards now, with the mob seething toward the marking stick, talking, some singing and all pleased with themselves. Jack readied his revolver, feeling the excitement mount.

  A group of the enemy surged forward, past the marking stick. One hauled it from the ground and waved it around his head, shouting.

  'Sir?' O'Neill's whisper carried through the air.

  'Now!' Jack yelled. 'Fire! 113th, Fire and keep firing!'

  The rifles cracked out, seemingly few against the mass of enemy. At the first volley, there were screams and yells, and men began to fall, dead or wounded. A few ran toward the rifles, most cowered away or turned and fled. Jack watched the camels, guessing that Armstrong would be with his prize.

  'Thorpe!' Jack yelled. 'Do your stuff!'

  He saw Thorpe emerge from the cover of his trench and scrape a Lucifer.

  'Come on Thorpe!'

  'My matches are damp with sweat, sir!'

  Swearing, Jack watched as some of the enemy ran past the kindling and into the plain beyond. Rising from his trench, he pulled a packet of Lucifers from his pocket and threw them over to Thorpe. 'Try these!'

  'Thank you, sir!' Thorpe waved, struck a match and applied it to the kindling. A flame flickered, wavered nearly colourless and blossomed. 'That's it, sir.' Ignoring the enemy horde, Thorpe watched the flame spread until the kindling was ablaze in near smokeless fury. 'Isn't that beautiful?'

  'Get down, you bloody fool!' Leaping forward, Jack dragged Thorpe down as enemy shots whistled around. They lay side by side on the hot ground, watching in horror as burning men screamed and writhed.

  'Oh, dear God, what have I done?' Jack stared, unable to look away as man after man caught fire and ran, howling, in a blaze of flames. A woman screamed terribly as her hair exploded in a fiery ball.

  Jack felt sick.

  'The camels, sir!' O'Neill shouted.

  Longer-legged than the men, the camels, had turned at the first whiff of smoke and loped in the opposite direction to the fire, bearing their helpless drivers with them.

  'Leave them,' Jack trusted to Batoor to round up the fleeing animals. 'Concentrate on the enemy.'

  With their retreat blocked by the flames, the surviving enemy realised they had no choice but to fight. They stood and fired, or gathered in small clumps preparing to charge, and the 113th shot them down like targets at a fairground.

  'Keep firing!' Jack searched for Armstrong. 'Leave Armstrong alive!'

  Jack flinched when something hissed past his head. Another bullet raised a fountain of dust at his feet. 'Somebody's aiming at me,' he said and rolled sideways for a better look. 'Is th
at you, Armstrong?'

  A random gust of furnace-hot wind cleared the smoke, and Jack saw Armstrong with his Enfield in his hands, staring at him.

  'Surrender, Armstrong, and I'll ensure you have a fair trial.'

  Armstrong said nothing as he hurriedly reloaded his rifle, with his gaze never straying from Jack's face.

  Somebody shouted, the sound high pitched and despite their losses and the hideous screams from the burning men, the enemy began to rally. Jack aimed his revolver at Armstrong, reluctant to shoot one of his 113th. 'Put the rifle down, Armstrong.'

  'I have him covered, sir,' Logan said. 'Say the word, and I'll blow the bastard's heid right off.'

  Jack shook his head. 'Not yet, Logan.'

  As Armstrong lifted his rifle, the enemy charged. The mob covered the ground at an astonishing speed, screaming as they waved tulwars and spears, knives and iron-tipped staffs.

  The 113th met them with a rolling volley that felled the leading half dozen and then it was down to the bayonet, boot and rifle butt. The enemy was brave, tough and hardy but they faced veteran professional soldiers whose business was fighting. Jack emptied his revolver, dropped it and drew his sword. The slither of steel from its scabbard thrilled him, perhaps with an inherited folk memory or some half-hidden desire to test himself blade-to-blade.

  For a moment, the press of bodies concealed Armstrong. Jack stepped forward and thrust at the leading man, who dodged and ran on. Jack had a glimpse of the black turban and partial face-veil of one of Jayanti's warriors. As Jack hesitated, firelight flickered on the ruby ring on her left hand.

  'You!' Jack shouted and rushed towards her. 'You murdering witch.' He slashed at a loin-clothed peasant who swung a staff at him, barged the man aside and squared up to the black-turbaned woman.

  For a moment, they glared at each other until Batoor roared up behind Jack, slicing his Khyber knife into a luckless spearman. He shouted in Pushtu at the black-turbaned warrior and thrust with his blade. The warrior parried without seeming effort, and for a minute they fenced, slashing, thrusting and parrying with speed and skill that Jack could only admire. Only when the 113th rushed forward did Black-turban vanish, leaving Batoor panting.

  'I ordered you to catch the camels, Batoor, not get mixed up in the fighting.'

  'The camels are safe, Captain Windrush, and that woman would have killed you. Would you have me stand and watch when you die?' Batoor sounded amused.

  'Where are the camels?'

  'Knee haltered, sir,' O'Neill gasped. Sweat dripped down his face.

  'I see.' Jack glanced over his shoulder to see six camels standing together. He swallowed his pride. 'Thank you, Batoor.'

  'He's dead, sir,' O'Neill said.

  'Who?' Jack's mind was on the warrior with the ruby ring.

  'Armstrong, sir.'

  Jack swore. 'A pity. I would have liked to question him.'

  'That woman killed him,' O'Neill nodded to Armstrong's body, crumpled between two near-naked men on the plain with his face twisted in agony. Black-turban had emasculated him. 'There's something in his mouth.'

  Jack prised open Armstrong's jaw and removed the crumpled sheet of paper.

  British soldiers, why fight for a shilling a day when you can earn twenty times that amount fighting for a better cause? Why fight for the shareholders of the Honourable East India Company when you can fight for yourselves and have beautiful Indian woman as your companions?

  All you have to do is walk away and join us. Welcome bhaiya! Welcome, brother!

  'So much for brotherhood,' Jack said. 'Armstrong must have kept this note and contacted the enemy.'

  'Yes, sir,' O'Neill said. 'I did report that he went missing a couple of times when we were in Lucknow.'

  'Indeed you did,' Jack agreed. And I did nothing about it.

  'These black-turbaned women use people and kill people, Captain Windrush,' Batoor said. 'Once Armstrong told them about the treasure he would not be of any further use.'

  'Do you know the woman?' Jack cleaned blood from his sword. 'Do you know the woman who wears the ruby ring?'

  Batoor looked away. 'We have met.' His voice was lower than normal, and Jack wondered if he was witnessing the real Batoor. 'And I also know Jayanti. Jayanti killed my wife and my son. I will hunt her.' He kissed the bloodied blade of his Khyber knife in a dramatic gesture. 'And I will kill her.'

  'Why did she do that?' Jack was curious.

  Batoor sheathed his knife. 'Who knows the workings of a woman's mind?'

  He's not going to tell me anything more.

  'The woman with the ring mutilated a young friend of mine,' Jack said. 'I want her dead.'

  'Then we both follow Pashtunwali,' Batoor said. 'I thought you had Pathan blood.'

  Perhaps I have.

  'We have the camels under orders, sir.' O'Neill brought them back to the present. 'MacKinnon got himself slightly wounded. All the others are present and fit, sir.'

  That was O'Neill's subtle method of asking for orders.

  'The lads did well,' Jack said. 'We'll water at the last village; rest up until dark and head for Gondabad.'

  We won the battle, and I learned something new. India gets more complicated by the day.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gondabad rose from the shimmering heat like a ship appearing over the horizon. For a while, the fort seemed to float by itself with the haze hiding the houses below, and then, one by one, minarets and temples appeared. The city itself was last, with the homes of the people barely seen and gold mohur trees eye-catching bright, as the coppersmith birds clattered relentlessly.

  'There we are again,' O'Neill said as they halted. 'Gondabad.'

  Jack nodded. 'I hope Elliot is safe.' He pushed aside the thought of Mary. He knew she was used to the company of soldiers, but he didn't like to think of her surrounded by the desperate men of the 113th.

  'Lieutenant Elliot is a fine officer, sir,' O'Neill said. 'He'll take care of your men.' He hesitated for only a second. 'Miss Lambert will be safe as well sir. She's a brick, that one.'

  'Thank you, sergeant,' Jack said. 'Yes, she is a brick. Now we have to find some way of getting this treasure to the Rajah. It's a shame Jayanti already knows about it.'

  O'Neill relapsed into silence. He was a first-class sergeant, but nature had not blessed him with much imagination.

  'We'll find somewhere safe to halt the convoy,' Jack decided, 'and I'll take Batoor into the fort and find the Commander-sahib.' It will be more like Batoor taking me into the fort.

  'Yes, sir.'

  They halted in a small tope, with the trees for shade and a sluggish stream for water. Jack sent Whitelam up the tallest tree to act as lookout and trusted O'Neill to post pickets.

  'We'll be back soon, sergeant,' Jack said. 'Or we'll be dead.' He could speak quite cheerfully of his possible demise. In India, death was so prevalent and came in so many guises, that it was senseless to ignore it.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'If we're not back in three days, make your way to Lieutenant Elliot, give him my compliments and advise him that he is to act as he thinks best.'

  'Very good sir.'

  There was no need to advise O'Neill to watch the men. He would do that as a matter of course, and not one single anna of the treasure would be missing when Jack returned.

  Jack and Batoor left an hour before dusk, sliding out of the tope and across the maidan to the city with the night sounds eerie and the crackle of distant musketry.

  'Something's happening,' Jack said.

  'Yes, Captain Windrush,' Batoor said. 'It could be Sir Colin Campbell, or perhaps something much closer. The land is very disturbed.'

  'It is.' Jack hoped that Elliot and Mary were safe.

  'Captain Windrush,' Batoor broke a long silence. 'How will you bribe this cow-worshipping Rajah to support the British?'

  'Why, Batoor, with the treasure of course.'

  'Yes, Captain Windrush, but what is to stop the Rajah from taking your treasure and then cut
ting all our throats?'

  'I know the commander of his army,' Jack said.

  'And I knew that devil with the ruby ring. We were lovers, she and I. It did not stop her from murdering my wife and son.'

  'Do you have a plan, Batoor?' Jack thought it best not to comment on Batoor's ideas of morality, or on his angry disclosure. Batoor was gradually revealing himself as trust grew.

  'I have a plan, Captain Windrush.'

  'Let's hear it then, Batoor.' Jack nodded as Batoor explained.

  The Rajput sentries at the fort entrance looked askance at Batoor, who pushed past them as if he belonged. Jack heard the words “Commander-sahib”, and the Rajputs allowed them passage. Once more in the interior of the fort, Jack felt the claustrophobia clutch at him and tried to appear nonchalant.

  'In the den of Shaitan.' Batoor tapped the hilt of his Khyber knife, looking a bit like the devil himself.

  Jack forced a smile. 'Well, Batoor, let's show the devil what we can do.'

  'God is great,' Batoor said, 'and all things are His will.'

  'I hope His will coincides with our desires,' Jack said softly.

  As Jack entered Baird's office, he saw a furtive figure slide behind a screen at the far side of the room and guessed that one of the Rajah's servants was listening to everything he said. Well then, Jack thought in a sudden devil-damn-you-all flash, let's give him something worth reporting to his master.

  'Good evening, Commander-sahib.' Jack saluted his grandfather.

  'Jack my boy, and Batoor.' Baird was all geniality as he stood up to greet them. 'Did your mission to Lucknow succeed? I know all about it, you see.'

  'I thought you might,' Jack said.

  'You don't look as if you've suddenly come into a fortune,' Baird said.

  'I have hidden my fortune outside the walls of Gondabad, and there it will remain until I have assurances of its safety.'

  'You're thinking like an Indian now, Jack,' Baird approved. 'What kind of assurances do you want? I can willingly give you my word.'

  'It is not your word I doubt,' Jack said. 'It is the word of your Rajah.'

  'Ah,' Baird nodded. 'He could not send out the army without asking me. I am their commander, after all.'